


the secret you keep is him

by Areiton



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergent, Derek is Not a Failwolf, Falling In Love, Growing Pains, Growing Up, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, POV Second Person, Phone Sex, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-08
Updated: 2017-08-08
Packaged: 2018-12-12 18:24:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11742627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton
Summary: It’s the beginning, and you don’t really think about it, about how strange it is that Derek actually answeredyou, because he doesn’t answer Scott, doesn’t text anyone from Beacon Hills. He’s gone and he’s staying gone and everyone is better without overlap.But then, he text you, and it takes you a week of obsessing over what he said to realize how fucking strange it was that he said anything at all.





	the secret you keep is him

You don’t know when you started keeping secrets.

Not the _oh, hey dad, werewolves are a thing_ secrets, because those have been happening for a while, but the secrets that aren’t life threatening, but are still life _altering_.

Maybe the first time you looked at Derek and didn’t think he was a dick--and immediately felt guilt, because Scott hates him, _you_ hate him and this is just some kind of weird Stockholm shit, has to be. Except that Derek, asshole, grump, he of the magnificent eyebrows and eternal angst, actually hid a personality under all that leather and you _like_ it.

You tuck that secret deep down, scoff some sarcastic response and very deliberately don't think about it, when you can't turn your brain off and sleep. But that's when it starts. That's the first time you keep a secret about Derek, keep something from Scott. And it's not bad. It's small and harmless and you dismiss it because people are dying and your opinions about Derek need to wait.

The problem is, it gets bigger. The secrets you keep get bigger and the reasons you kept them became more complex and sometimes that bothers you, eats away at you. But then, sometimes.

You don't care at all and that's the worst secret you keep, you think.

It’s not like secrets aren’t part of your life--you keep them from everyone, about everything, but this isn’t nogitsune shit, this isn’t werewolves or monsters of the week, because those are the secrets you share, with Scott, with Lydia, with the pack.

Hell, you even share them with your dad, now, and that still gives you nightmares.

But that. Nightmares.

You haven’t told anyone about them. Now that you aren’t waking up screaming the walls down, even your dad thinks they’ve ended, and you let him.

He worries enough--with the way you throw yourself headlong into danger, you can’t really blame him for it, either. You hate that you’ve done that, given that kind of fear to him. You’ve spent most of your life--since your mom died, anyway--trying to make things easier, to take care of him, to not give him reasons to worry. Even when you were at your worst, a tiny ball of rage and flailing limbs and unfocused attention, you kept that as your north star, the steady point you fixed your chaos around.

But hey, shit changes, and it’s better he knows, better that the supernatural shit you run headlong into isn’t a secret that sits heavy between you.

For a while, right after the nemeton, you thought you were done with secrets, that you’d get to be honest with him, finally. That your dad would look at you and his eyes wouldn’t be guarded and wary and a little hopeful--but then.

Yeah.

The nogitsune. The nightmares. The fucking Deadpool. Everything piled up, one secret on the other, and for every one you shared with him, there had to be five more you didn’t.

Secrets became a way of life, as easy as breathing, half-lies and unspoken truths sprinkled in with just enough real knowledge that nothing came back to bite you in the ass, you were walking away without that _look_ in his eyes.

And Scott--

Well.

Here’s the thing about Scott. You love him. You’d die for him, in a heartbeat, have gone to the mat for the kid. You get him, and he gets you--you’ve spent so much time wrapped up in each other it’s hard to be separate, individual.

But Scott is so painfully _good_. There isn’t any gray for him, there isn’t anything complicated.

It’s why he doesn’t like Derek. Derek is mades of shades of gray, of questionable choices made for the wrong reasons. Of good intentions gone wrong. And you get why Scott doesn’t trust him--especially after the whole mess with the betas and the Alpha Pack. After Jennifer.

Derek made all the wrong choices, there. He fucked up every step of the way, and there were so many times you wanted to strangle him.

But even when he was messing up, when he was getting it almost _painfully_ wrong, he was trying. He was doing the wrong things because he thought it was right, doing the wrong things for the right reasons.

Erica was a broken shell of a girl, before he changed her. And maybe she was all kinds of fucked up after, but she was _better._ Happier. She was alive, in a way you’d never seen before and even if it was a bad idea--you couldn’t fault Derek for giving her that, even while you listened to Scott bitch and moan about what a screw up Derek was.

Maybe it’s because you get it. You’ve lost sleep, thinking about it.

What you would have done, in Derek’s place. Who you would have changed.

You’ve had nightmares about it, with Peter grinning bright and feral at you and everyone you’ve ever loved circled around you with big pleading eyes and fucking leather jackets, and blood on their claws.

So you get it, and it’s a secret truth you tuck away, a simple thing that makes it a little easier to tolerate Derek, and if Scott gives you indignant eyes for that, well, that’s ok. Scott can learn to share--you did, with Allison, and with Kira, and the rest of the goddamn pack.

But then Derek is gone, and Scott relaxes, because he’s _Scott,_ but he isn’t an idiot, and he knows that whatever you’ve got going on, Derek features in it.

Maybe he doesn’t know about the nights where you can’t sleep and Derek sits at your desk doing research while you complete a new and _better_ bestiary. Maybe he doesn’t know about the way you walk the border of the pack territory with Derek, murmuring low and smooth, and pausing, to carve protective sigils while Derek watches with patient eyes.

Maybe he doesn’t know that sometimes Derek will look at you, and you’ll look back, and it’s like the air of the room gets sucked out, and there’s only this electric _want,_ jumping between you, and nothing has happened, but sometimes you think it’s just a matter of time, and you don’t mind waiting.

He maybe doesn’t know any of that, but he knows that you’ve never been exactly on the level when it comes to Derek, and he’s gone, so maybe that’ll change, maybe you’ll both go back to the days before the bite and the weekly _how are we gonna die_ games, and Allison.

You almost feel bad that you know it won’t and don’t fill him in on that little fact.

You don’t actually mean for it to become a thing. And it takes a while. Because you’re _pissed_ when Derek leaves, even while you get it.

Beacon Hills was every bad thing that had ever happened to him, was ground zero on watching his life implode. You got that, and on an objective level, you didn’t fault the guy for getting the fuck out.

You don’t blame him. But you also can’t help but resent him, a little. Because he _left_ , ran away to find himself or fuck Braeden, or whatever the hell it was he was doing while you’re life was falling apart, while you were fighting to keep some semblance of normal as Scott slipped further away.

So you don’t mean for it to happen. It’s after a fight with Scott that wasn’t actually a fight, one of those nights that ended with your voice sharp and loud and his eyes wide and puppy and the faint sense of shame because you yelled at him again.

You’re still riding that anger, and you find yourself in front of the remains of the Hale house, and you’re texting him, before you even think about it.

 

_S: i want him to understand that it’s dangerous that he can’t fucking trust everyone he isn’t just him anymore not even just me and him and it terrifies me that he’ll trust the wrong person and one of the kids will end up dead. how the fuck did you deal with that kind of fear_

 

You toss the phone aside, and for a while, you don’t think about it, drive home, and you spend a little time with your dad, time that isn’t heavy with the supernatural or the pack, and if it feels like the not-fight with Scott is a secret between you, it’s a light one, an easy to bear.

You sleep easy, deep and dreamless, knowing that tomorrow Scott will want to Talk and you’ll nod and give the right sarcastic noises, and you’ll tuck the fear and distrust away until it’s time to do the hard things again, but it’s easier, because someone _heard_ you.

Even knowing that he won’t get the text, won’t read or respond, it’s easier.

 

***

 

Except that when you wake up and blearily check your messages, there is a response. You bolt upright, yelping, “Holy shit,” and your dad is making inquisitive, concerned noises as you wave him away and read the message.

 

**D: Do you know what punctuation and capitalization are, Stiles? They’re a thing, you should use them. It makes it a helluva a lot easier for whoever you’re talking to to understand your midnight panic.**

**Something my mother told me, when I was a beta amd knew one day I'd be Laura’s second--an alpha leads the pack. The second leads the alpha.**

**Scott doesn't always know what he's doing but he's got the best intentions. You aren't tied to the betas, not the way he is and it gives you some objectivity that he will never have. It's why he needs you and why your job is so hard.**

 

You think about that, lost in your own head and rereading it. It feels almost like a blessing, even though it never says you’re is a good second, never says you’re capable. It’s not what he says, that gets to you. It’s the things under it, the things neither of you talk about. There is an unspoken language, between you, one that is different from the one with Scott, but no less important, and that’s what distracts you, for days.

It’s the beginning, and you don’t really think about it, about how strange it is that Derek actually answered you, because he doesn’t answer Scott, doesn’t text anyone from Beacon Hills. He’s gone and he’s staying gone and everyone is better without overlap.

But then, he text _you_ , and it takes you a week of obsessing over what he said to realize how fucking strange it was that he said anything at all.

 

***

 

You make yourself wait. You don’t want to be the annoying kid he pushed around the Preserve, wants to be the thing you grew into with him, all those nights when Scott was busy and the puppies were distracted and it was only you and Derek, and things were--good.

So even though you want to text him, want to pester him with the thousand questions--why did he leave his pack? what the hell was going on with Braeden? did he actually die? why did he leave Beacon Hills? what was it like being a _wolf_ wolf? where did he go? did he ever think about you, miss the nights you spent with him? why did he leave _you?--_ you swallowed them, the way you have for years, and ignored the urge to text him, until the night you almost die (again) because of a kelpie, and Scott tries to adopt the faery horse.

 

_s: do you ever wonder what would have happened if scott had stayed home that night? If Peter hadn’t bitten him and we never found out about the werewolves. I wouldn’t have almost died tonight, my dad wouldn’t be sheriff anymore._

_I wouldn’t know Lydia or Liam or Mason._

_I wouldn’t know you._

_sometimes i think it’s the worse thing that ever happened to me and it didn’t even happen to_ me.

_but sometimes I think it’s the only thing in my life that makes sense._

 

It’s strange to be so honest, so serious with him. You only ever did that when someone was about to die, when he was about to die. But it’s harder, it’s so hard to keep all your doubts to yourself. The secret questions that you can’t take to Scott, can’t take to the pack, because they’re good kids, but they’re _kids_ , they’re _your_ kids, and you protect them.

You protect Scott and your dad, and your weird moody kids, and Beacon Hills and you love it, you do, but sometimes--

Sometimes you are so fucking tired and unsure that you break a little.

And Derek--well, he’s always been the safest place for you to break, because he’s always been the one to catch you when you fall, keep you whole, keep you safe.

A week slips by and you think he won’t respond, when your phone brightens cheerily during first period.

 

**D: I have a recurring nightmare, where Scott wasn’t with you and Peter bit you instead.**

**You’re smarter than him and me, and put it together before I do, and you put him down, and take his power.**

**There’s another one, where he bites you and you die in the woods, alone, and I find your body a few days later. I hate that one.**

**The worst, though--the worst is the one where you aren’t in the woods, and Scott isn’t. You don’t ever get bitten and I see you from a distance, but never get to know you, never even know your name, before Peter finds and kills me.**

**Yeah, Stiles. I think about it. I try not to.**

 

For a long time, you stare at that because, what the fuck.

No.

No, seriously.

_What the fuck?_

You text before you mean to,  shock and something that you refuse to call hope spinning in your gut.

 

_s: what the actual fuck, sourwolf? What the hell am I supposed to do with that?_

 

**D: Do whatever you want with it. Ignore it.**

 

Shit.

Well, damn. You weren’t exactly expecting a pseudo-declaration before ten am, but you’re good at adjusting and you can roll with this.

 

_s: what if I don’t want to ignore it?_

 

**D: pay attention to class, Stiles. We’ll talk later.**

 

You breath a heartfelt curse, but set the phone aside. You know that tone, even in text--you’ve heard it often enough. He’s done talking.

For now, anyway.

 

***

 

But you never do talk about it. He doesn't text you later and you get caught up with Scott, chasing a werecoyote out of the pack’s territory, and somewhere along the way, it settles in you, this new knowledge.

Scott looks at you funny, like he knows you're happy but doesn't know why and you can feel the question rising up, and you shove the Jeep into gear, peel away from the territory line, now warded and protected by your fledgling power.

“Think that'll keep em out?”

Scott frowns. Allows himself to be redirected.

“For now. For as long as it needs to.”

That bothers you. Because you know--you both know--that the ward is a stop gap. That it will fail and you’ll end up fighting tooth and claw to hold on to what you have, to stay alive another day. It bothers you, enough that you scowl at him. “We don’t need temporary measures.”

Scott shrugs and gives you a patient sort of smile. “We just need long enough to get the hell outta dodge, Stiles.”

You still, because this isn’t the first time you’ve talked about leaving, but there’s something different about it this time, something final.

“You want to leave the town unprotected?”

“I want to leave the town. What happens after I’m gone isn’t our problem.”

“It _is_ our problem, we opened the door, Scott,” you can hear yourself getting loud and angry, and you know you need to tone it back. That Scott will dig his heels in if you don’t. But the idea of leaving Beacon Hills behind, defenseless--it makes you furious.

“We’ve done our part, Stiles. We’ve done more than our part. How many of us have to die to protect this town? When is it someone else’s turn?”

You stare at him. “Whose? Huh? If it’s not the Alpha of Beacon Hills who the hell is it? Because I can tell you--it’s gonna fall on the cops, and that’s my dad, Scott. You ok with that?”

Scott is quiet for a long time, long enough that you huff a sigh and pull onto the road, headed back home.

It’s not an answer, but then again, it is.

When you pull to a stop in front of his house, Scott slides out and looks at you, serious and solemn and he looks so goddamn young it breaks something in you--not completely, but a little. The hairline fracture going a little more.

“He chose that.”

You freeze, hands tightening on the steering wheel, and he rushes on, like he knows he’s fucked up. “I don’t want your dad in danger. But he was before we knew about werewolves, and he will be if we leave town. Us being here, me being alpha--it doesn’t affect that. I didn’t chose this, Stiles. And. I want to. I want to chose _something.”_

You don’t say anything, because if you do, you’ll cuss him out, cut him to pieces. Scott is the one with claws, the strong alpha--but you could eviscerate him with five carefully delivered sentences, could rip him to pieces that even his damn superpowered healing couldn’t fix, and for one nauseating moment, you _want_ to.

You want to see him bleeding emotions everywhere, confused and hurt and--

Tuck it away. All that shit, wrap it up, tuck it in a locked box in the closet of your mind, and you nod once, leave without speaking.

You try not to hate him, and you don’t even mind when that’s a quiet, heavy secret lying between you now.

Because that is a secret you should keep.

It's not fair to be angry that Scott doesn't worry about your dad. He's got his own problems, his own family to worry about, his own pack to protect.

You just thought you were part of it.

Thought what mattered to you mattered to Scott.

You tuck it away and you don't let Scott know how much it bothers you, don't let on that it feels like a betrayal.

But you know. And every comment, throwaway and insignificant, feels like _more_ as you tally them up, tuck them away.

 

***

 

You feel disconnected. Its that displaced feeling you've had since Donovan, since before that. You've never quit feeling slightly apart, after the nogitsune, even after the nightmares faded enough that you can hide it, the way you still wake up in a cold sweat, still hear its voice like a phantom in your head, can feel your hand twisting the blade in Scott's gut.

This is just another way you feel separate, another way you are different. They are all anxious, eager to graduate, to walk away, to go back to normal like that is a thing any of you get.

You don't understand how any of them think they can go back to before. Every single one of their lives changed that night you dragged Scott into the woods, and you don't get to go back. It's too late for that, you already took the red pill--you know too much, have too many scars to ever claw your way out of the nightmare that is Wonderland.

And to be fair, you like the nightmare. It fits you the way normal couldn't possibly, not now. Its darkness fills in the cracks and scars and broken places, and leaves you desperately alive.

 

_s: you were born to this. have you wished you weren’t? that you could have been human--normal kid with normal problems?_

 

You crawl into bed and get twenty minutes or so into an episode of Fringe before your phone brightens, and you look at it.

 

**D: Yes. I think it’s normal--especially after the fire. There was a lot of ‘if I was human, would Kate have just fucked me and left me heartbroken?’ After we were in New York, Laura tried. She avoided the local packs and we lived a human life, didn’t even shift on full moons.**

**We were both miserable. This is part of who you are--even though you’re human. You can’t ignore it without cutting out who you are. But it’s normal to want to, I think.**

 

_s: i don’t want to. scott does--lydia and malia, they’re so excited to get out and leave the supernatural behind. i get wanting to get out of Beacon Hills, because the town is a shitshow, and i’d walk and never look back if it weren’t for dad. but. walking away from the supernatural--i don’t know how scott thinks he *can*._

 

**D: Are you pissed he wants to be normal or are you pissed he’s abandoning his pack? Abandoning you?**

 

You think about it, because it’s a fair question. It’s a _hard_ question, but then you and Derek have always walked a hard road together. When Scott took the easy path, Derek never could. And when Scott never looked deeper until he _had_ to, you always did, always _needed_ to know everything.

It’s why you and Derek became friends, that first summer between sophomore and junior year, when Scott was too busy being normal to worry about what was waiting in the woods, while Derek scrambled to find his missing betas and you ate up every piece of knowledge you could and you learned, together, to trust each other, to _help_ each other.

It’s when you fell for him, even if you won’t ever admit that out loud.

 

_s: i think i’m pissed he keeps trying to have something that he *can’t*. he focuses so hard on things he can’t have and he forgets that he’s in a world of teeth and claws that requires his attention. people die or they get hurt because he’s an alpha who wants to be a vet. i love him. he’s my brother and my best friend. but he’s selfish and sometimes--a lot of times--that’s dangerous._

**D: Realizing that doesn’t make you a bad friend, Stiles.**

_s: dude, don’t get all touchy feely on me._

**D: Wouldn’t want that.**

_s: it depends on the touches and feels. could get behind some._

**D: Does that line work on people? Has it EVER worked?**

_s: SHUT UP, I’m adorable!_

_s: what are you even doing?_

**D: reading about sirens. Found a couple last week in a little town I passed through. Thought I'd figure out what I was facing before I charged in.**

_s: derek hale, are you actually using that big pretty head of yours? who are you even? did someone steal your phone cuz i will rescue you._

**D: asshole.**

_s: i think i’ve got some info on sirens in the trilogy. gimme a couple hours, i’ll send what i’ve got._

**D: Trilogy?**

_s: oh yeah, man. i put my bestiary and grimoire together with the Hale and Argent bestiaries. makes a badass trilogy._

**D: I don’t know if I’m terrified or impressed.**

_s: dude, i have that effect on people._

 

***

 

It goes like that, then. You text him info on sirens and a few days later, he’s looking into a wendigo and after that there’s a brownie, and every time he asks if the trilogy has anything to say, you end up staying up too late, peering at your computer and compiling research for Derek, mumbling at your dad while you type, and Derek texts you the odd observation of late night television until you send him your damn Netflix password because Derek deserves nice things and there’s something very wrong about listening to a werewolf debate buying skin care products at one in the morning.

When Scott asks you about being tired and you shrug it off, it settles there. You don’t know why you aren’t telling him or the rest of the pack about helping Derek, about talking to Derek. All you know is that of all the secrets you keep, this is the only one that feels selfish and the only one that doesn’t make you feel guilty.

Derek is your secret, and you will keep him as long as you can.

So you scrub your eyes and mainline coffee and ignore Lydia’s sharp stare because you stayed up too late again, watching Doctor Strange and texting Derek, wishing you had the courage to call him.

And you keep your mouth closed and Derek is your secret.

 

***

 

Things are quiet in Beacon Hills, quieter than they have been in longer than you can remember, and you watch the pack slip into easy, into normal. Watch them pouring over glossy bright college catalogs, and make plans for lives that exist outside this town and you nod, you smile while they plan for new roommates, for apartments and dorm rooms and meeting for fall break. Malia is leaving the country with Peter, and you should feel worse about this than you do--you should be broken up that your first serious girlfriend is leaving you.

But you’ve been over for longer than you were together, and neither of you have ever cared too much. And there is the truth--that Derek makes you smile with a one word text more than Malia did when she was naked in your bed.

Derek’s always been in a different category for you, though. Maybe it wasn’t fair to expect Malia to be what he was. No one could be, just like no one could be Lydia or Scott and trying was setting them up for failure.

Some nights, while you bitch about homework and senior year, and Derek sends back dry observations, you wonder if this is all you’re ever going to have.

If pining and research and weirdly disjointed movie nights are enough for you.

Then Derek sends you a picture of his barefeet on the bed, a pizza almost gone next to him, and Netfix ready to start, and you realize that yeah.

If this is all you get, it’s still everything.

Then you get hurt.

Which, in hindsight isn’t that surprising. It’s been almost three months since you last walked into your kitchen covered in bruises and trying not to bleed all over the floor. You were overdue, and you know it.

“We should call Scott. Or Liam,” Mason hisses and you roll your eyes.

“It’s a _faery ring._ ” It’s the fourth time you’ve said it and you’re pretty sure Mason is just as unimpressed as he was the first time. “The fae won’t talk to the pack, and the ring doesn’t affect them. It has to be us.”

“Don’t you think _telling_ someone is a good idea? In case, I don’t know, it goes wrong? Like it _always does.”_

You lead him into the ring and hold up your phone, flashing a smile. “I text Scott. Don’t worry so much.”

Mason gives you wide eyed disbelief which would be a lot more insulting if there wasn’t a flash of light and magic that made your fingers tingle.

It goes about as well as you think it _can_ go. There’s a lot of very creepy beings staring at you and making demands and looking as confused as Derek did the first time he dealt with you--good times, those--there’s the requisite demands and insults, the dismissal of weak humans.

The problem is--the fae were drawn by the nemeton, by whatever you cracked open. They want Beacon Hills and refuse to recognize that the McCall pack already holds the territory.

“Animals,” the queen says, very coldly, “cannot hold land.”

Magic thrums through your veins and you smile at her, sharp and bright, and Mason stirs next to you.

“I can,” you say and she laughs, a shining noise that feels like a blade.

“You are human.”

“Maybe,” you say and it doesn’t bother you anymore, because being human isn’t _bad_ . Being human doesn’t mean you are any _less._ “Or maybe I’m magic.”

You let the spell unspool, and it washes out in sharp drive, slamming into the queen. She screams as you gasp, stumble back and you can feel Mason at your back, feel him tensing a second before the first Knight hits you and you taste blood, blood _blood_ , every blow unnaturally strong and the queen _screams._

“Stop, _stop!”_ she screams, and there is nothing lovely and timeless about the pained, panicky screech. You spit blood and it burns against the grass, withering it. Your smile is feral and red.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?”

“What did you do?” she snarls, and you’re absurdly pleased that she’s as bloody and bruised as you.

“You want my territory--I tied you to it. But so long as you stay in my lands, you will have the frailty and mortality of the human who claims it.”

She pales, so fast it's a wonder she doesn’t topple over and you have a moment to wonder how secure her throne is, how an immortal being made mortal will survive.

“Get the fuck outta my territory,” you snarl, and she blinks, once.

You’re in the Preserve, between one blink and the next and you can hear wolves howling, hear the sound of Mason, scrambling for his phone as he catches you, because yeah, ok--you totally over did it.

But.

“That,” you slur out, “was badass.”

Turns out badass is exhausting. You barely make it home before you crash. It takes almost forty eight hours to sleep it off, something Scott tells you when you wake up and find him reading, propped against the headboard next to you.

He looks drawn and worried, which might make more of an impression if you weren’t truly alarmed by the number of texts filling up your phone when you power it on.

Fifty. Eight.

And five missed calls.

You look up, everything clicking into place. “It hasn’t been forty-eight hours.”

“It’s been two days since you got back,” Scott says.

“How long?”

He looks a little sick, but says, softly. “Four days. You were gone for four days.”

_Fuck._

Scott shoves off the bed, and retreats to the door. “You’re dad wanted to talk to you. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

You nod, a little absently, and Scott stares at you. “Don’t do that again,” he says, and his voice is different. It’s not Scott, your best friend talking. It’s your Alpha.

And it pisses you off.

You swallow hard, swallow down the bitter truth that _you did what he couldn’t_ and nod. “Ok.”

Something tight and pinched in his eyes eases and he leaves.

You let out a slow breath and unlock your phone, scroll quick.

Forty two of the messages are Derek, going from amused to worried to flat out panic and desperation. You expect it to tip over, into distance, cold removal, but it never does.

The rest are a mix of messages from your dad and the pack, worried but they knew, they _knew_ where you were because your reckless but you aren’t _stupid._

You should have told Derek.

 

_s: I’m here. I’m ok. I’m safe._

_s: went to take care of some fae for the pack and it took a little longer than I thought it would._

_s: I didn’t mean to worry you._

 

The phone rings, while you’re still typing the fourth message, ( _i’m sorry, derek. I should have given you a heads up. I’m sorry.)_ and you aren’t as surprised as you thought you’d be.

“Stiles,” he growls, and if you weren’t sitting, hearing that familiar growl, hard and warm and higher than it should be--that always surprises you--would take your knees right out from under you.

“Hey, big guy,” you say, weakly and he snarls, this wordless thing.

“You--I--” he bites off the words and settles for a heavy silence and you can _see_ him, in some room you can’t picture, but you can picture him, his shoulders slumped, glaring at the ground between his feet, trying so hard to get the words out and you get it, all of a sudden, why texts are so different--he has the time and space to put it together, his words in a way that makes sense.

“Hey,” you say, gentle now, “Its ok. I'm ok.”

He makes a noise, something like a whine and then exhales heavily.

You ask, even though you don't want to. “You want to text? Would that be easier?”

“No. I--it helps, hearing you.”

There's more in that statement than either of you are ready to unpack so you ramble, tell him about school and spring break, about the trilogy growing and a new spell you managed to work without any backlash. You talk about movies and he interjects opinions and you tease him until he laughs and you smile, and it’s not like the tension is gone, because it’s _not_ , you can feel it thrumming through you, as you undress and crawl into bed. He goes quiet, while you do that, and you murmur, “You ok?”

“Stiles,” he says, and it’s amazing, how much he can pack into your name. It’s a warning and a curse, endearment and _want_ and it makes you shiver against your sheets.

“You stopped texting,” you say, “before I got back.”

There’s a silence and you want to fill it, but you’ve gotten better at waiting. Sometimes Derek needs to be given the space to come to you. You’ll never like that, but you’re better at giving it to him.

“I came to town.”

You stop breathing, for just a moment, because. “Are you still here?”

“No,” he sighs out. “I left when I realized your dad wasn’t freaking out. Figured he knew where you were and it couldn’t be too bad.”

Your breath leaves in a rush and you are dizzy with it, with the disappointment.

“I didn’t think you were close enough for that,” you say, your voice tight with emotions you don’t want.

You haven’t let yourself ask. If Derek wanted you to know, if he wanted to be close, he knows where you are. He could share. He left you and it makes you furious suddenly. That he came and left again.

“Stiles, you--you don’t need me there.”

“Maybe I don’t need you, Derek. But did you ever think I wanted you here?” You bite off the words, before you can say the rest. _I’ve always wanted you here._

There’s a long silence and then. “I’ll come back.”

You know what a promise sounds like, even if you’ve never heard Derek make one.

“When,” you ask, and you hate how young you sound, even though you can hear him settling on his bed, a thousand miles or a dozen miles, away.

“Stiles?”

“Yeah.”

“Watch a movie with me.”

It’s not an answer, but you let it go, turn on Captain America and listen to him breathing, whispering the lines a split second before the movie does, and it’s the white noise that drowns out your thoughts as you fall asleep.

The next morning, there is a text, one word that strings a smile across your lips.

 

**D: soon**

 

***

 

After the faery ring, you stop chasing things so much. You still push Scott to patrol, because as long as you’re here, Beacon Hills and the people here are yours to protect, and you’ll bully Scott into being the Alpha they deserve if he won’t step up.

It’s causing problems though. An unfamiliar tension in Scott that rings wrong in your gut. A sharpness when you talk to him, in the pack meetings that everyone notices even if no one is bringing it up.

Lydia does.

Of course Lydia does. She waits until the pack has emptied out of Melissa’s living room, and Scott is picking at the empty pizza box and you’re reaching for your Jeep keys, already thinking about how long until you can text Derek when she snaps. “Sit down.”

It would be funny, how quickly you both obey. Except you’re fucking _magic_ and Scott is a True Alpha and Lydia is---Lydia.

You want to see the supernatural creature brave enough to stand up to her. Seriously, you could do with a laugh.

“I don’t know what the the hell is going on between you, but you’re going to fix it. Now.” She sits down and crosses her ankles primly and gives you both an unimpressed glare.

“Nothing is going on,” you say and her gaze goes cold.

“I’m not a werewolf, but you try lying to me one more time,” she says, and her voice is vicious and threatening and ok, that was a misstep.

You look at Scott and he gives you a patient sort of waiting look. Like he’s waiting on you to explain something and it occurs to you suddenly that this is on you.

“You want to leave. You all want to leave and walk away from everything. And I don’t know how to do that. I don’t _want_ to do that.”

Lydia and Scott exchange a long look and then, gently, Scott says, “We’ve given a lot, Stiles. Don’t you think it’s time to just...live?”

You nod, because you get that. You’ve given everything you’ve had and then some--a few times. You’ve lost people and done things that haunt you and you _get_ it, the tired set of Scott’s shoulders.

But. “This is how I live,” you say, quietly. “This is how I want to live.”

There’s a long silence, and you smile. Sadly. “I get it, you want out. Want normal--but I don’t. I’ve never wanted it. That’s why I dragged you into the woods, Scott. I _like_ this. I want it. Now, and when we graduate.”

There’s a moment, where you stare at Scott, let him see just how serious you are, and then you stand and go home. There isn’t anything else to say.

 

***

 

“You want to tell me what’s wrong?”

You shrug, even though he can’t see you--werewolf hearing means he can hear it. “I wanted to stay together. The pack. Me and Scott.”

There’s a low hum and then, “Going in different directions doesn’t mean you’re losing them, Stiles.”

You think he probably knows something about that. He left, and you didn’t lose him. But--

There are people who are gone. Who you _have_ lost, and Scott. Lydia. The _pack._ “I don’t think I can do this. Lose them.”

“What are the options here, Stiles?” Derek asks, patiently. In the background Criminal Minds plays out.

“I keep the pack and walk away from the town and the supernatural when they do. Or I keep the supernatural and I lose the pack.”

“Don’t be a dumbass,” Derek says. “Scott might not like it and he might not participate, but he won’t cut you out because you decide to continue pursuing your magic. It’s not what you do, Stiles, anymore than it’s what I do. It’s who we _are._ ”

You get that. But it wouldn’t be the first time someone walked away from you because of what you are. There’s a reason you’ve ingrained yourself so deeply into your father’s life, why you keep keys to the McCall’s place and are obsessive about Lydia, why you are a fucking helicopter parent to Liam and Mason--you’ve made yourself so necessary they can’t leave you. Because--

“Stiles,” Derek says, and his voice is soothing, cutting through the panic in you, “breathe, Stiles. C’mon, breathe for me. Match me, kay?”

You make a panicked noise and he hums a little, soothing, and it helps.

It helps, hearing the steady swoosh of his breath, the quiet rumble of his hum, grounding you and drawing you back to yourself.

It’s different from the way your dad does it, or even Melissa--and god knows no one has ever stopped one of your panic attacks as quickly as Lydia did with her kiss--but it works, and it's a slow slide, and isn’t that fitting? Everything with Derek has always been a slow slide, both of you bumping your way down together.

“I wish you were here,” you whisper, the confession so soft Derek wouldn’t hear it if he weren’t a werewolf.

Of course, he is. So he does.

He makes a noise, something that’s closer to a groan than a growl and trails into a laugh. “That’s such a bad idea.”

You’ve been dancing around it. For months now. Maybe since before he climbed in that damn truck with Braeden and drove out of your life.

Maybe since you dragged the pack to Mexico to pull him out of a church or maybe---fuck, maybe since you glanced up from looking for Scott’s inhaler and saw him, giving you both this furious confused glare.

Maybe you’ve always been headed to here, dancing closer and away and back, always fucking back, to each other.

“Why,” you breathe, barely daring to hope.

There’s a beat of silence, heavy and waiting, like he’s giving you a chance to back down.

“If you were here,” you say, stronger. Demanding. “Tell me what would make it a bad idea.”

There’s a rush of his breath, and then, casually, almost conversational, “I used to watch you sleeping.”

“God, creeperwolf.”

“Shut up. You’d come out and do something stupid and heroic and selfless, and I couldn’t figure out _why_. I watched you, because i thought if I did, maybe you’d start to make sense to me. You were in that bed--the one you’re in right now, and I was at the window, leaning against it where you couldn’t see me if you woke up and I knew I wasn’t going to learn anything from you sleeping, but you--christ, Stiles.”

“Tell me,” you demand, your voice tight and breathless.

“You were gorgeous. You’re never _still,_ you know? I watch you move, and it’s exhausting as it is fascinating, but when you’re still--it’s like you become someone else. Someone softer and fragile, and your neck,” he groans, draws the word out and it feels like a live wire to your dick, “fuck, Stiles, I wanted to bite you.”

You make a noise, one that sounds, even to you, like a whimper.

“You had these bruises,” Derek says, “Not bad--I could barely see them. And they looked, god, they looked fucking perfect there. All I could think was how my mouth would fit, the bruises I could leave. How easy it'd be to fit my hands to your hips and leave fingerbruises there and that maybe, the next day, when you were sore and aching, you'd smile instead of frown. Kiss me instead of push me away when I tried to help.”

You don’t really _decide_ to so much as you can’t stop it from happening. Your heart is pounding too fast in your chest and your hips are moving restless on the bed as he talks, as he fills you up with all the things he hasn’t said before, that you’ve waited for.

He hears it, when you start jerking your cock, and he groans, this noise that is all want and _filth_ and you bite your lip, take your hand away because you’ll come. You’ll fucking come and you’re not ready, not yet, don’t want this to be over.

“You’d let me,” he says, sure and awed, and you hiss out a curse. “You’d let me hold you down and mark you up. Spread you open and fuck you slow.”

“Derek,” you gasp, hips jerking into nothing.

“So impatient,” he husks, “Slow down, huh?”

“Don’t wanna,” you whine, twisting on the bed for _more_ , “I’ve waited for years. Tired of waiting.”

Derek laughs at that and you get an idea of what it’ll be like, what it could be like.

Laughter and teasing, playing with each other while you chase your orgasam. His voice in your ear as he teases his fingers over your body. “I wanna take my time, Stiles. Now that I’ve got you, gonna work you open slow and easy, til you’re sobbing for me.”

You _are_ sobbing for him. “Derek,” you groan, “just fuck me.”

“Mmm. How? Do you want my fingers or my tongue?” he muses, and it’s so casual, so fucking matter of fact, you feel your orgasm building, boiling up and you make this choked noise, grip yourself hard at the base of your cock, cutting it off, and he laughs.

“C’mon, Stiles,” he says, soft and teasing and it’s fucking with your head, that _tone_ because he sounds so goddamn _happy_ you want to make him sound like that, forever.

“Tell me what you want,” he murmurs.

If you were anyone else, you’d probably answer coy and sexy, match him note for note in this seduction, keep your cards close to your chest until you knew what he wanted, where his head was.

If you were anyone else, though, maybe you’d never have gotten _here._

You’re you, so you blurt out, “You. Fuck, Derek, you, I want _you_.”

He growls then, a sharp feral noise bitten off. “Gonna hold you open and fuck you on my tongue, work you until you wet and loose for me, baby.”

You groan, and nod, frantic now as you jerk yourself off and he doesn’t stop, is done teasing, finally and when you whine and wail his name, he snarls, says, “Now, Stiles. I’m going to fuck you now, gonna fill you up so I’m always part of you. You can’t leave me, not now. I’ll always be with you.”

And it’s done, game over. You come hard, thick white streams of come across your chest, his name filling up the air, and he whines, _Stiles_ twisted up in is throat as you hum, “That’s it, big bad. Just like that, come for me just like that.”

After, he’s soft, sweet as he cleans up, tucked into his room so far away, as you strip off your clothes and wipe up, half hearted and lazy and so goddamn happy you can’t bother to freak out.

Not right now.

Right now, you’re with him, as much as you can be. And maybe that’s enough.

 

***

 

You stop waiting for things to change.

Derek doesn’t call any more but he doesn’t call any less. You still send him research when he’s up against a succubus and he tells you the best way to trap a leprechaun--and makes you promise not to make the damn thing a pet. You bitch about finals approaching and the puppies relationship drama and he talks about Laura, sometimes--more and more, he talks about Laura and his mom, about life before the fire.

You don’t know exactly what it means, but you think you’re starting to get it.

And sometimes, when you’re least expecting it, or maybe it’s that you _don’t_ expect it, you’ll have sex, this mind blowing sex that makes you ache for him in ways you didn’t know were possible, and you were pretty damn sure that you had all the ways to miss Derek Hale on lock.

But you don’t change, really, just ease into another secret side of a relationship that’s quickly becoming the most important one in your life, and it should probably bother you that no one know.

It doesn’t.

Maybe because you are drifting in different direction, or maybe because the secrets you keep are always out of necessity and this one is because you _want_ it, because Derek is special and secret and you aren’t ready to share it.

Aren’t ready for it to end, because you think it might, if you drag it out and let the pack poke at it.

It’s not like you haven’t noticed, the way he came to town and slipped back out again, without ever talking to the pack or your dad. He’s just as content to keep this secret and special as you are.

 

***

 

Things are quieter in Beacon Hills than it has been in years, and you find yourself thinking about Deaton, and his regression to the mean theory--maybe you swung so wildly in the ‘everything is shit’ direction that you’ll actually ride out the last month of school without the world ending again.

You aren’t sure if that’s what you want, but you’ve gotten that it’s what Scott and Lydia want, so maybe what you want isn’t that important.

Still, you keep up patrols. You walk the borders of the pack territory, reinforcing the wards, and let magic catch at your fingertips.

Liam and Mason come with you sometimes. You think Mason is more like you than is probably healthy--brilliant and loyal and so fragile human it’s actually painful. He doesn’t have the advantage of your magic--he will never stand as emissary or spark, can work mountain ash but can’t do the _more_ that you can.

It scares you, when you let yourself think about it. Even with Liam and Corey to protect him, it scares you.

“Do you think I can do it?” Liam asks. You’ve been walking side by side for a few miles--Mason peeled off with Corey. You glance at him, and see the worry that you’ve been seeing for months.

Scott leaving Beacon Hills isn’t just leaving the supernatural problems. It’s leaving _Liam._

“I think you can do more than you can imagine,” you say, and your voice rings with honesty.

“I’m just a kid he didn’t mean to bite with anger issues,” he says, bitterly and you stop. Grab him by the shoulder and turn him to face you.

“You’re not a fuck up, Liam You’re a leader--you lead the betas more than Scott ever did. You keep them safe. You’re going to do just fine,” you say, and put every ounce of belief in your voice.

You aren’t even lying.

“What if I fuck up,” he asks, his eyes wide and scared and you shrug.

“Then you fuck up. You will. There’s no getting around that. But you learn from it and you lean on your pack and you get past it.”

You smear your blood on the ward you’re standing next to and let him scent the magic, let him get his emotions back under control. Throw him a cocky smile. “And I’ll be around, when you need me.”

Something like confusion fills his eyes. “I thought you were leaving.”

You nod, slow. “I am. I have to go to school and figure out what comes next--and I can’t do that here. But I’m not leaving this,” you wave a bloody hand at the world at large, an all encompassing gesture that wraps up all of your fucked up life, “behind. I’m not abandoning you.”

He nods, and you don’t need to be a werewolf to see the relief in him as you keep walking, strengthening the wards.

 

***

 

The thing is. You know what it's like, to be left. To be the one standing holding the empty bag while everyone walks away. You get where Liam is coming from because you’ve been there.

Hell, sometimes you think you’re still there, still wondering what you did wrong while everyone else walks away, moves on, _lives_ without you.

You curl in bed, your phone on speaker next to you while you try to force down your fear and loneliness. It’s one of those nights where neither of you are really talking--Derek is tired, and you would normally get off the phone, let him sleep because god knows he needs it but he isn’t going and you won’t end it, not tonight.

You aren’t sure you could, even if you wanted to.

He’s reading and you lean against the pillows and wish you were leaning against him. Three thick, oversized envelopes are sitting on your desk, where your dad put them and you’ve ignored them.

“I don’t want to go to college,” you say, suddenly.

It takes ten seconds, fifteen before Derek inhales, and another ten before he says, kinda dazed and out of it, “Really?”

Once, college was the end goal. It was what you looked toward, because it was a fresh start. It was a new chance, a place to get close to Lydia, and get away from Beacon Hills, to be more than the spazzy kid with the dead mom and the overprotective father.

But that was a kid he doesn’t recognize, not anymore. He’s changed too much to go back to that, and maybe that’s ok.

Maybe it’s ok for people to grow and change, and find new dreams and futures. Maybe you aren’t losing something, when you do that. You’re just gaining something different.

“Why?” he murmurs, and you hear the book close, whatever he’s reading.

There isn’t a case, no monster of the week, so it’s something he’s reading just because the guy is the biggest nerd you know, and he likes reading obscure biographies and accounts of historical events.

You don’t have an answer, not for the questions he’s asking, or maybe you do, maybe it’s just as simple and as complex as--

“I miss you.”

His breath leaves him in a rush and you squeeze your eyes shut.

Even now, with the sex and affection and comfortability you have with each other, this makes you squirm with nerves and vulnerability.

“College--it won’t teach me what I need to know, to be a good emissary or protect Beacon Hills, or anyone else.”

“You want to be a magical police officer?” Derek says, a smile in his voice, but it’s  not mocking. It’s fond, and warm, deep affection that he doesn’t hide from you anymore.

“Yeah. I do.” You say, letting that settle in you. Because more than anything, that wraps up what you want.

What you’re good at.

You’ve never been good at much, aside from taking care of people you care about. You’re good at research and fighting the things that go bump in the night, but you were never good at things before, before Scott got bit.

But you’re _good_ at this.

“Stiles?”

“Hmm?”

“I miss you, too.”

Your heart jerks, hard, at that and you clutch the phone a little twisting in your bed. “I’m trying to be patient, Derek.”

“I know, baby,” he murmurs. “Soon. I’ll be with you soon.”

 

***

 

You look. After that night, you’re looking for him--you catch yourself watching the street and your window, your head lifting when you hear a car revving too fast, when you see black flashing in the corner of your eye.

You don’t mean to be looking for him. You don’t really realize that you _are_ until one afternoon, when you’re getting lunch with your dad at the local diner.

“You waiting on someone?” he asks, easy but his eyes are sharp and you realize that’s the third time your head has snapped up when the door opens.

The first instinct is to smile, shake your head, deflect. Hide the secret under everything else. But.

“Uh, yeah. I am.”

Your Dad’s eyes brighten and he straightens a little, giving you all of his attention. Like this matters, what you say. You know it does, that he cares deeply for you--you don’t still think you’re a burden and something he’d dodge if he were a less respectable man, but it still--warms you, seeing to see him staring, open and earnest and eager.

“I started texting Derek, a few months ago,” you say, slowly, carefully.

Something flickers in his gaze, quick, but not so fast you don’t see it. The concern. But what he says is, “How is he?”

You smile. You don’t mean to, but you smile, “He’s good. Really--better than he was, when he was here. Not healthy, because it’s Derek and I don’t think he _can_ be, but he’s happier, and he’s making himself useful to the supernatural population.”

“Where is he?”

You shrug, a little helpless. “I, uh. I don’t know.”

John frowns and sits back, and the waitress swings by while he chews that over, grinning at you when you order salads for both of you and a small side of fries to share.

If he’s going to hear about Derek, you’re pretty sure he needs the fries.

“Maybe you need to explain this to me a little more.” John says and you nod.

You do. You explain how it started, how angry you were and how it became something safe and easy and yours, how he makes you smile, and how you help him. You tell him about the frantic texts when you were missing and him showing up in Beacon Hills, and disappearing again, and how things changed after that.

You tell him about the conversations that have nothing to do with whatever big bad Derek is hunting, or the magic you're learning, about the time you spent a solid hour arguing about if Batman was a villain or a hero. You tell him about the nightmares you have, sometimes, and the way Derek will wake up, groggy but there, scratching out your name and listening to you breathe until you can close your eyes again.

You don’t mention the sex, and you don’t tell him that Derek is being stupidly supportive of you leaving Beacon Hills to become a supernatural consultant for those in need--and dude, _you_ sound like a superhero now.

But maybe you don’t need to tell him that, because when you finally stop, when you run out of words and you fall silent, he’s watching you, and there’s something in his eyes that makes you think of your mom. Of the way he looked at her, and the way he smiles, sometimes, broken open and raw, even now.

He doesn’t say anything and it makes you nervous, so you blurt out, anxious, “Are you mad? Derek--he’s different now, he’s _good_ for me.”

“Stiles,” he sighs, and he laughs, a watery noise that makes you ache because he sounds so sad, and so happy and it’s tearing you up a little. “If he makes you happy and loves you even a fraction of what I think he does--no, kid. I’m not mad. You deserve someone who loves you like that.”

You bite your lip and then, “Like what?”

His smile goes bittersweet and haunted. “Like I love your mom.”

You look away, because you have to. Can’t stare at him while that swims around the table, raw and too honest. You stare out the window while he clears his throat and settles the check and it’s only when you’re opening the door to the Jeep that he asks, “Scott. He doesn’t know, does he.”

You shake your head, and look at him. Derek is special, secret, _yours_ and this--this conversation hasn’t changed that.

You don’t think anything will. You’re always going to guard him and what you have with a jealous protection that makes no sense, even to yourself.

“No one does,” you say and your dad nods.

Takes a step back and smiles a little. “Tell him I’m looking forward to seeing him, when he comes to town.”

 

***

 

He doesn’t bring it up. And neither do you. He knows, of course he knows, how you feel, that you miss him. It’s there, sitting between you in your conversations, but it’s a comforting weight, grounding you both, and as you circle it, your nerves and fear steady.

He promised soon, and Derek has never promised you something he could not--would not--deliver. You whisper it when you’re falling asleep and he murmurs it back, sleepy and small on the phone.

The last day of school comes and you aren’t as broken up as you thought you’d be. Scott and Lydia and Malia run, eager to break free, and you walk with the betas, slower, reminding them you’re still here. You catch Liam’s eye, serious, and he nods, a smile curling his lips.

You pack your room, and your dad doesn’t ask why and maybe you don’t know, where you’re going, but you know that it will always circle back to here.

The night before graduation, you walk the borders of the McCall territory, and strengthen the wards, letting magic flow easy and rich through you as your blood spills and stains the protective sigils.

They’ll hold. Maybe even without a True Alpha to hold the territory, _you_ can. Your magic will keep them safe, and you---

You aren’t leaving, not like Scott is. You aren’t abandoning the town and your father and the kids to chase a normal life.

And you realize--it’s ok.

Scott moving on, and you stepping further into the role of emissary and balance keeper.

It’s ok. It’s right.

 

***

 

Graduation is easy. You smile and listen to Lydia give a kickass speech and you sweat under your cap and gown. You take your diploma and you walk off the stage, and it feels--the same. You aren’t fundamentally different now, and that’s ok.

You can hear your pack cheering and you grin and wave, wildly and for a second, just for a heartbeat, you’re that kid, the one who dragged your best friend into the woods to find a dead body and changed _everything_.

Then it’s over, and you're in your seat, waiting out the end of the ceremony.

There’s a press of people, after, all well-wishing and celebratory and you fight your way through them, shaking hands and smiling wide for quickly snapped photos, until you’re pressed up to Lydia and Scott, and Malia is a few feet away, almost snarling as she pushes through people to reach your dad and Melissa and

your feet slow

you can hear Scott’s startled noise

Lydia’s sharp confusion

But

He smiles, wide and free and toothy, and you _run._

Shove through the crowd and past Malia and your dad, smiling wide, and throw yourself into him.

Derek catches you, easily, stumbles back a single step before he steadies, his arms tight around you, face already pressed into the curve of your neck and he’s shaking or you are, but it doesn’t  matter, really because

“You’re _here,_ ” you breathe, and he hums, that familiar noise you’ve heard over the phone so many times, warm and comforting in your ear. A noise like a sob breaks free before you press into his shoulder, desperate.

Scott is making these choked noises behind you and Derek’s grip loosens a little, until you slide down to stand on your own, and pitch your head in to press your forehead against his.

“You didn’t say,” you complain, lightly.

“I said soon, didn’t I?” Derek answers, a grin on his face that tells you just how pleased with himself he is.

“Stiles,” Scott snarls, impatient and you twist, grinning because you can’t stop that, not even if you wanted to. “What the hell, dude?”

Secret’s out, now.

Derek’s arm never leaves your waist, even as you face your alpha. “Derek and I--we’ve been talking.”

“For how long?” Lydia demands, eyes trained on that arm around your waist.

“Um,” you start.

“Nine months,” Derek says. “And three days.”

You give him a startled look and he shrugs, the tips of his ears red and you can hear the others clamoring for answers that you don’t have for them.

He nudges you, murmurs in your ear. “There’s a tulpa, in Vancouver. I was thinking about looking into it. You coming?”

You think of the bag you’ve had packed for a week now, the aimless but settled feeling in you, the research you’ve already done, because you’ve been looking up cases for weeks.

You nod and smile, wide and happy, and he kisses you, right there with your pack and your father watching.

They don’t know everything that led you here, and they don’t know what will lead you from here, at Derek’s side, because it’s a secret you’ve kept for months--years--now, and as his hands hold you close and your lips open under his, desperate and hungry and a strange familiar--you don’t care.

Derek is the best secret you have ever kept, and you’re keeping him still.


End file.
